


Guy Walks into a Bar...n

by Adurant



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: F/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:20:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23443105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adurant/pseuds/Adurant
Summary: Guy of Gisborne rescues a young woman nearly as bitter and scarred as he.
Relationships: Guy of Gisborne/Original Female Character, Marian of Knighton/Robin of Locksley, Other characters?/With others?
Comments: 26
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

The summer sun beat down remorselessly on his black jerkin and mail sleeves. Another rivulet of sweat trickled down his backbone to pool under his arse. At this rate, he'd be able wring out his saddle when he arrived at Mott's farmstead. But his chin never drooped and his shoulders remained straight as his horse plodded along the dirt trace. He could, of course, have worn something more suitable to the weather. The world regarded him as a cross between monstrous and heartless, and Guy of Gisborne made it a point to live up to that reputation. So even here he was, in the dog days of summer, riding out on his master's business clad collar to boots in black leather. 

At least the day’s task was simple enough. Sheriff Vaisey had assigned him the humiliating chore of collecting taxes from a recalcitrant farmer -- a punishment for Guy's most recent failure to root out the outlaw Hood. Guy had swallowed his pride and left Nottingham this morning. He swallowed a lot from Vaisey. Insults, slights, contempt. 

Guy accepted what his master dealt out, because without the Sheriff of Nottingham, he was nothing but a landless knight little better than the farmer at the end of this path. Sometimes he dreamed of freeing himself from Vaisey, of riding off and offering his services to another powerful lord. But he’d spent too many years doing Vaisey’s bidding. When he cautiously sounded out some of the great nobles who came through Nottingham, one and all drew back at the suggestion that he might join their retinues. 

And at least with Vaisey, he had an estate. Granted, Locksley was small, and technically belonged to the outlawed Earl of Huntingdon, but Guy would do anything to keep it. Anything to avoid slipping into the ranks of knights whose only worth was the Sir in front of their names. 

The trace widened into a clearing that encompassed a single story house, a barn and some outbuildings. He stopped his horse. One hand on his hip, he surveyed the place. A single cow grazed in pasture beyond the barn. No fields were in sight, but he guessed they lay beyond the trees on the far side of clearing. 

Not a human soul could be seen, and only birdsong and contented pig grunts reached his ears. Catching sight of a rain barrel at the side of the barn, he led his horse over for a drink. Still no one came out from any of the buildings to acknowledge his presence. 

Then low male laughter came from inside the barn, along with a few thumps. Guy loosened his sword in his scabbard. Dropping the reins, a signal to the horse to stay put, he made a guess as to which end of the building held the door and moved stealthily in that direction, one hand on his hilt and the other hovering near the dagger tucked into his belt. 

Rounding the corner, he found he'd guessed right. Then he looked inside. 

Before him stood three men with their backs to him. Their victim lay face down over a trestle, hands tied to a post before her, ankles tied to the trestle’s legs, skirt raised. She didn't speak as one of the men loosened his trousers, but her matted braid swung frantically as she shook her head back and forth. A muffled cry told Guy she was gagged. 

God's tears, even he'd never sunk this low. He unsheathed his sword.

A small brazier, the kind used to heat bits of metal for repair, stood next to a workbench. The lout in front of the female grabbed the braid, forcing her head back. He brandished a red-hot awl before her eyes. "You better be a little friendlier. Or maybe we need to punch a hole for a nose ring." 

The woman's dry sobbing barely registered as Guy rushed the trio. The first stroke bit into the ribcage of the first man. Before he hit the floor, the sword sliced deep into the arm of the second man, who screamed and fell to his knees, his free hand trying to staunch the bleeding. 

Awl Boy held out his makeshift weapon in a vain attempt at self-defense as Guy advanced on him. The girl one side and the brazier on the other made swordwork impractical, so Guy tossed his blade ahead of him. 

It clanged on the wood floor behind Awl Boy, who hooted, "Whoever you are, you don't know shit about fighting."

"Don't I?" Guy smiled. 

Predictably, Awl Boy dove for the superior weapon -- turning his back. That was all Guy needed to reach him, deck him, and kick him in the ribs. As his opponent writhed in pain, Guy snagged his sword, then planted one booted foot on the palm that had just held the awl. Gripping the hilt with both hands, he drove it point first through the wrist into the floor, nearly severing the hand. As blood sprayed from the open artery, Guy dropped his sword. He dragged the man to the brazier. "You'll bleed to death if we don't cauterize that." 

The scream as the wrist hit the crimson coals was most gratifying, until the man fainted. Guy let him drop. A hatchet near the brazier caught his eye. Better than his sword for cutting through rope. He hacked the woman free, then helped her with the knots that imprisoned her wrists and each ankle. As the stench of her unwashed body hit his nose, he opened his mouth to breathe. Her knees buckled, and he turned his head away as he slid an arm around her waist. 

Standing, she was tall for a woman: only a few inches shorter than Guy himself. Yet she lacked the weight that should match her height. When he grasped her hand to examine her rope-burned wrists, he could see every bone. "You'll need to bandage this."

"I have some salve." She didn’t meet his eyes, but now that the rescue was over he could take in more details of her appearance. Most were unsavory. The beginnings of a black eye puffed out one cheek. Besides the stench of body odor, her hair hadn't been washed or combed in some time and added its reek to the unholy bouquet that assaulted his nostrils. Or maybe the smell came from the collection of ancient rags she wore. Guy stepped away. 

She stomped her feet as if trying to get blood circulating in them. Gaze on the floor, she asked, "Who are you?"

"Who the hell are you?" The second, louder question was shouted by a gray-haired man who now stood in the doorway, holding a pitchfork. 

"Arnulf Mott?" 

The man ran toward Guy, pitchfork lowered. "What'd you do to my boys?"

Guy twisted aside at the last minute, one fist connecting with the man's nose. "Sir Guy of Gisborne at your service." Disarming the fellow, he added, "I interrupted your _boys_ mid-rape, and they have recieved the Sheriff's justice." 

Not quite true. If Vaisey were here, he'd have very likely joined in, or at least watched. But he wasn’t here, meaning Guy could deal with the matter as he saw fit.

Hands at his bleeding nose, Mott gaped at the carnage in his barn. Guy cleared his throat. "Fetch a cloth. I need to clean my sword. After that, we're going to discuss the matter of your outstanding taxes." 

The girl rummaged on the bench by the brazier and held out the requested cloth. Amazingly, it was fairly clean. Guy wiped the blood off his blade. 

"Thank you," she whispered to the floor. In spite of the day's warmth, her teeth chattered. Probably delayed shock. 

"Ox! Get bandages." Mott jerked a thumb over his shoulder. 

Ox? What kind of name was that? Guy shrugged. He'd done his knightly duty. Now he needed to get the missing tax money.

_ But what will happen to her if she stays? From the looks of things, Mott will only beat the daylights out of her. _

He turned her to face him. The first sight of her eyes startled him. Blue, bright as the sky outside. "Are you serf or free?" 

She stared at him blankly. 

"Serf or free," he repeated. A freewoman could leave; if she was a serf, she was doomed to stay on the land.

She shrugged. 

"Ox! Move!" 

At the farmer's words, the girl -- Ox -- sidled out of the barn, then ran. Hopefully someplace far away. Or upwind. 

Mott stripped off his tunic and bunched it over the first miscreant’s wounded side. 

The lout came to with a groan. Clutching his wounded side, he struggled to a half-sit. "Jesus, I'm going to die."

"That's up to Him." Guy kicked him back down as he yanked the farmer up by one arm, marching him outside. "Vaisey says you owe ten more shillings in taxes." 

The man replied by putting two fingers to his lips and giving a shrill whistle. 

Guy rolled his eyes. "I don't think your sons are going to be much use to you." He jerked Mott toward the house. "Let's talk about your cash on hand."

"I ain't got any. And my boys are going to die if they don’t get help." The older man attempted a swing, but Guy blocked the blow, then twisted Mott's arm behind his back. 

The man whimpered. "Ow! I can't farm if you rip my arm off, Gisborne. How'm I supposed to pay my taxes then?"

"One fiscal year at time." Guy forced the man past the barn and the water barrel, where the girl now cowered next to his horse. "You," he shouted to her. "Get up, I need you to answer some questions."

Clutching the barrel, she got to her feet. 

Guy tightened his hold on Mott. "Where does your master keep his money?"

She pointed a shaking finger at the house. "Everything he owns is in the box to the left." 

“Hand me my dagger,” Guy ordered her.

Inching to his side, she unsheathed the blade with shaky hands, then gave it to him. 

Guy changed his grip to take the hilt and wrap his other arm around Mott’s throat. In the old man’s ear, he murmured, "Let’s find the key."

Inside the house, a fireplace stood to the left. Pots and pans hung on the wall between it and a cupboard. Prompted by the dagger, Mott moved a stone in the hearth to pull out a metal key. Then he opened the cupboard and lifted a wooden spice box from a sack of dried peas. Unlocking it, he lifted the lid. The box contained a little salt, an assortment of dried herbs, and no coins. 

Guy kicked it across the room in frustration. Vaisey would make his life more of a hell than usual if he didn't return with the missing tax money.

"Ware!" Footsteps outside followed Ox's panicked cry. 

Again holding his dagger at Mott's throat, Guy exited the house.

It turned out Mott had three more sons. Who now stood between Guy and his horse, holding a display of dangerous farm implements: scythe, flail and that sodding pitchfork.

Damn. Guy should have brought a few of his men. All he could do now was brazen it out. He pressed the point into Mott's throat. "Your father is behind on his taxes. I'll accept livestock instead."

The biggest lad lunged toward Ox. She cringed back and tried to run, but he was faster. Flinging her at Guy's feet, he snarled, "This is all the livestock you're getting off this place. If you make it off alive." 

Guy measured the odds. They didn’t add up in his favor. He regarded the odorous pile of humanity on the ground before him. "Get my horse," he said quietly. Thankfully, she had the wit to scramble to her feet and hurry toward the beast.

He'd have to go back to Nottingham empty-handed, but he would not,  _ would not _ be cut down in the middle of a piddling farmstead by a bunch of commoners. He'd be remembered as nothing but a pathetic laughingstock. 

He fixed his most threatening stare on the threesome in front of him. "Vaisey knows I'm here, and he expects me back tomorrow morning. If I don't arrive on schedule, this is the first place he'd going to search." He wouldn’t hunt for Guy, of course. Vaisey's concern was solely for his missing shillings. "I've watched him burn a farm to the ground because the owner insulted him. For ten shillings, he'll probably lock you inside the buildings before he sets fire to them."

Their weapons wavered. The girl came back, leading his horse. 

Guy waited until the animal was in easy reach. "What's going to happen now," he said, "is that I'm going to let your father go, get on my horse and leave. With the girl. If she's a serf, you just gave her away. And you're going to let me ride away." Now he smiled. "Unless you look forward to a visit from Vaisey and a small army."

He freed Mott on the last word and mounted his horse in one motion. With his foot, he extended a stirrup to the girl. "Behind me."

She scrambled up and wrapped her bruised, dirty arms around him. He nearly gagged, but managed to nudge the horse into a walk. Brutus took them back onto the trace. 

Empty-handed, save for the filthy female at his back. 

He sighed. "Please tell me you don't have lice."

"Not many." 

"Wonderful."

"Um . . . shouldn't we be going faster?"

"If we run, we show fear." 

" _I'm_ afraid." Brutus clopped on for a few more paces. "You are too. I can feel your heart pound."

He ignored her correct observation and focused on breathing through his mouth. Vaisey would have his possibly lice-ridden hide for this day's work. 


	2. Chapter 2

Once they were far enough from Mott's farm that the sound of hoofbeats wouldn't carry, Guy urged the horse into a canter. This took them off the trace, along a wider road going leading south, toward Nottingham. Eventually he reined Brutus in. The sweating destrier slowed, breathing heavily. Guy walked him to cool off before pulling him to a stop. 

He'd chosen this route because it followed a stream. This far north in Nottinghamshire, the forest petered out to become a land of grass where farmers like Mott scratched out a living. With no shade to offer relief from the sun, having water close at hand made the journey more pleasant. Here, the bank sloped gently down to the water. "Off," he said over his shoulder. "I need to fill my waterskin." 

The girl slid down. He let Brutus wander into the slow current and drink. Guy unclasped his jerkin for some relief from the heat, then plunged his head into the running water, shivering pleasurably at the burst of cool wetness on hot skin. He lifted his dripping head to find Ox doing the same thing. "Feel better?" She nodded, her gaze travelling up to the road. "Motts don’t stand a chance of catching up." 

He scoffed. "You can't seriously think they'll follow us." 

"I can't believe I'm quit of them." She said it with suspicion, not relief. Now she sat back on her haunches. "So who do I belong to, you or the Sheriff?"

"Me," he said firmly. Not that he had any use for a serving girl of his own; Nottingham Castle was filled with them, enough to meet every last one of his needs. But like all predators, Vaisey went for the weakest prey. This wench had _easy kill_ written all over her. Given what Guy had rescued her from, it didn't seem fair to throw her to the sheriff. 

He sat back on his heels, watching. Females had one of two reactions around him. Either they drew back in fear or tried to take advantage of his interest by flirting. He found both responses useful. 

Except for Marian, who had played on his lonely heart like a master musician, then humiliated him before his entire estate. 

Her face blank, this creature studied him as if trying to peer into his mind. 

She would fail, of course. He'd learned to hide his thoughts and feelings from boyhood. And after Marian, he'd doubled his guard. 

The moment stretched out, timed by the gurgle of the flowing stream. Then she broke her gaze to splash water on her face and hands. 

Slightly encouraged by this demonstration of basic hygiene, Guy got up to fetch his waterskin. 

He returned to find her rubbing something onto her wrists. A grayish blob sat in the middle of a palm-sized piece of leather. He nudged it with the toe of his boot. “What’s this?”

She snatched the leather away. “Salve. Lavender and lard.” 

“Where’d you get it?” A ripple of the scent reached his nostrils, which made the rest of her stench even worse.

“Made it.”

“It seems you’re good for something, then.” He returned to the lip of the stream and held the top of the skin under the clear water. 

On hands and knees, she bent to drink from the stream, seemingly ignoring him. God, she resembled some kind of animal. 

Her blackening eye reminded him; he unwound the yellow scarf from his neck -- the only bit color he allowed himself -- swished it in the stream, then tossed it to her. "Use that for a compress. You'll have to hold it in place. I don't have any spare cloth to tie it with."

Neither did she, judging by the rags that exposed her ankles, both arms and the top of her flat chest.

She tied up the leather that held her salve, then stowed it in a ratty cloth bag made of brown cloth. "How am I supposed to hold a compress and ride?" 

"You don't. I'm going to ride, you're going to walk alongside Brutus." Where her lack of cleanliness wouldn't strangle him. 

“Are we travelling much farther today?" 

He eyed the sun. It was westering, but nowhere near sunset. "Several hours."

She bunched herself up, arms around her knees, then exhaled as if taking on an invisible burden. Her bare toes curled and uncurled in the grass. 

She didn't have shoes. 

Guy rubbed the ache developing at the base of his skull. He could either ride with the smelly creature behind him or be further slowed by her barefoot state as they walked. A breeze ruffled along the grass, carrying a whiff of her odor. That decided him. "You can walk on the grass, where it's softer."

Face set, she pushed herself to a stand. He retrieved the horse and led him up the bank, signaling Ox to follow. Once they returned to the road, he opened one of his saddlebags to pull out a spare length of rope. Facing the girl again, he said, "Come here."

Gaze fixed on the rope, she backed away, color draining from her face.

He caught up with her in a few strides, tamping down his impatience. "I'm not going to tie you tightly. You'll have plenty of slack."

She jerked away from him. "Don't." 

He followed, looping the rope and tying it with a slip knot. "I won't risk having you run off."

A bitter laugh escaped her. "Where am I going to run to? How? You'll ride me down before I go ten paces."

He tilted his head, considering. She had a point. But he wasn't prepared to risk losing his only witness to what had happened at the farm. He seized one of her arms. She wrenched away from him with unexpected strength, but he caught her again, pulling the arm out from behind her to hold it straight out.

Under the wide bracelet of fresh rope burns, ridges of puckered skin encircled her wrist. Old scars. "Today wasn't the first time your hands have been tied."

She shook her head. 

"Then I’m sorry." Over her protests, his fingers tightened and he slid the loop over one wrist. Reeling her in with the rope, he soon had both wrists tied before her. Her face puckered, but she did not break into the tears he expected. 

Instead, her lip curled in a sneer worthy of Guy himself. “Should have figured you’re no better than the Motts.” 

Her words punched something deep in his gut, the part of him that regretted the sins he’d committed in Vaisey’s name. Guy stared upward, through the first eaves of Sherwood Forest and into the sky. “Shit.”

A minute later, he had his dagger out, slicing the bonds. 

Freed, she rubbed her wrists and offered him a glare.

With a snarl, he wrapped his fingers around the nape of her neck and marched her to stand by Brutus' head. "You will walk right here. Not slower, not faster." He held the dagger up. “You make any sudden move and so help me I will cut out an eye.”

She gave another one of her shrugs. “Yeah, all right. Your horse is good company." Her tone implied that Guy was not. 

He mounted. The bright day did nothing to ease his mood. What good were sunshine and butterflies in the fields when he faced another tongue-lashing from Vaisey? Guy would do what he always did: tell the sheriff what happened and survive the consequences. 

To take his mind off his problems, he studied the girl walking in front of him. It was habit, nothing more. He didn't understand women -- he'd never had much chance to spend time with them -- but he loved to watch them move. The sway of their skirts as they walked, the bend of their waists as they fetched and carried, the tilt of their heads, all those curves . . . the image of Marian rose in his mind. 

Longing warred with rage. He'd come so close to marrying her, but she’d rather cavort in the forest with that blockhead Hood. 

Songs about greenwoods and lovers and what lovers got up to in greenwoods danced through his mind. No. He pounded his thigh. Marian was a lady, and Hood, despite the price on his head, was still the Earl of Huntingdon, sworn to protect gentlewomen. They wouldn’t . . . 

Would they? Bile rose in his throat.

To stop this line of thought, he asked his new possession, "What's your real name?"

"Ox.”

He rolled his eyes. "The name people call you besides Ox."

This time she shot him an annoyed glance out of the eye not covered by the compress. "Ox."

Maybe she was a simpleton after all. He summoned some of his dwindling patience and spoke slowly. "When you were a little girl, what did people call you?" 

When she didn't reply, Guy gave up any hope of intelligent conversation. 

Some fifteen paces later, she said, "They called me Girl." 

"They who? The Motts?"

She shrugged. 

They walked and rested through the afternoon, but nothing further was said save for Guy's commands to stop or resume their journey. Since it wasn't a holy day or a market day, they came across few other travelers, who scurried out of the way. By the time the sun's lower edge kissed the horizon, the road had become completely deserted. 

He reined the destrier into a small clearing of knee-high grass, bounded on the right by a wall that stretched into the woods. Across the road, willows and shrubs hid the stream from view, but it was an easy walk away. The grass would give Brutus good grazing. 

Guy dismounted and rubbed his numbed arse. "We'll camp here tonight."

Ox sat straight down into the grass with a groan. Guy untied his bedroll from its place over his mount's withers and tossed it to the ground. The saddle, saddlebags and bridle followed. 

As soon as he was unencumbered, Brutus hit the ground, rolling in the grass with every sign of horsey ecstacy. 

She scrambled out of the animal's way, cracking the first real smile Guy had seen on her. Her gaze fixed on Brutus, she said, "Been a long day for you, hasn't it, boy?"

He'd done the sodding rescuing and she sympathized with the beast. Typical female. Shaking his head, Guy opened one of the saddlebags to pull out a picket line, pin and halter. Then he pulled out his own gear from the second bag. 

The girl gathered a wisp of dead grass from the roots of the long green stems. Once the destrier was up on all four legs again, she approached him slowly, cooing and speaking softly. Continuing to speak gently, she drew the dry grass in circles over his neck, dislodging newly-acquired dirt. 

"Huh," Guy said. She obviously knew what she was doing; gathering grass and cleaning off the beast was next on his mental list. However, first things first. He extracted a sliver of soap from his saddlebag, along with the change of shirt and breeches from his bedroll. Approaching Ox, he plucked the grass from her hand. 

She jumped and whirled to face him so abruptly that Brutus shied. "Easy." Guy ran a hand along his mount’s shoulder. To the girl, he said, "Go to the stream and get cleaned up." He handed her the clothes and the soap. "Throw that thing you’re wearing away and put these on instead." 

She stared down at the objects in her arms like she'd never seen clothes before. "You want me to bathe." Her narrowed gaze met his. "Uh-huh."

"Yes. Do not come back until every trace of dirt is gone." 

"And you're just going to . . . what?" She clutched her burden like a shield. "Stay back here and finish grooming your horse while I undress?"

"That is exactly what I'm going to do." Except that once she was bathing, he'd creep near enough to keep an ear out in case she tried to escape. Much as he hated it, he needed her. For now. 

She closed her eyes, and her chin wobbled for a moment. "I get it." She bent her head. "I owe you for getting me away from the Motts. Just -- tell me what you want me to do without any games." 

"Ox." The word felt so odd used as a name. He lifted her chin with one finger until she opened her eyes again. "I want you to go to the stream and get cleaned up. Then come back here. Eat, sleep -- not with me -- and we'll go to Nottingham tomorrow. That is all I want you to do."

She didn't move. Maybe she felt trapped with him standing so near. He stepped back. After another long gaze, she whirled and ran toward the stream. 

"Clean," he shouted after her. "Spotless!"

She waved one hand and disappeared among the saplings. 

The minute she was out of sight, Guy shucked his jerkin, heavy mail shirt, and the linen shirt that protected his skin from the metal rings. At the feel of air on his bare skin, he sucked in a relieved breath. All those layers had nearly cooked him this afternoon. If he hadn't stopped in sight of the road and next to a convent, his breeches would have come off, too. 

Pulling up a new wisp of dry grass, he ambled over to his horse. "Come on, lad. Let's get you clean, too."

Once Brutus was groomed, Guy pulled the nearly-dry shirt back over his head and donned the chain mail over it. He could rinse his linen in the stream later tonight, when he bathed. 

He'd kept his sword belt on out of long habit, although no one had passed this spot since they arrived. He picketed Brutus. If anyone came along and tried to steal him, the animal would neigh in protest. 

Crossing the road, he made his stealthy way toward the stream. Hopefully the girl would still be there, although he'd picked a place near St. Elfgiva's on purpose. If she ran, the girl would logically take shelter there, thus making the task of hunting her down easy. The prioress was a stern woman. If Guy told her he sought a runaway serf, Ox would be handed back to him, no questions asked. 

Fortunately, the sound of splashing greeted his ears. He got close enough to squint through the leaves of a dogwood. Ox's bare backside was to him as she scrubbed the soap over her skin. Her wild hair made a mane down her back, ending above a pair of sunken flanks. _The Motts didn't waste much food on her, did they?_

Guy eased down to sit, facing away from the stream. Maybe he should go to St. Elfgiva's after all. They'd have food there, and medicine for Ox's wrists. They might even have a dress for her --

"You know I can see the sun on your mail, right?" Ox's shout interrupted his musings. "'Oh, Ox,'" she mimicked, "'I just want you to bathe and then eat. I'm not going to follow you and peep at you while you're naked. Noooo.'" 

The tirade reminded him of Vaisey, if the sheriff was a naked, underfed maidservant. Guy pulled aside a branch to expose the back of his head. "I'm not peeping at anything I shouldn't be. I thought it might be a good idea to be at hand if a stranger came by."

"You're the only fucking stranger I see!" 

This is what he got for trying to do the right thing. "For the last time, I am not going to hurt you," he bellowed. He'd prove to her his intentions were honorable whether she liked it or not. "If you want to, I'll take you to St. Elfgiva's priory tonight. We're right next to it. But I'm staying right here until you're finished. When you're out and dressed, say so."

"I’m not going to St. Elfgiva's." Her voice was flat. The splashing came closer, followed by the shuffle of footsteps on old leaves and the slither of cloth and leather. "I'm dressed."

She didn't sound happy, or look it either when Guy found her. She sat on the bank, worrying at her matted hair with a wooden comb that lacked most of its teeth. "I tried to wash it, but it's hopeless."

"The only advice I can give you is to cut it off." Recalling the humiliation Marian had experienced when Vaisey publicly cut her hair, Guy braced for tears. 

Ox ran her hands through the dull strands until they an enormous snarl. After spending several minutes trying and failing to get it out, she dropped her comb to the grass. "Do it."

Guy must have misheard. "Cut your hair? Off?" 

"You have a knife. Go on."

"It's called a dagger." He pulled out his blade of Damascus steel and knelt behind her. "Don't move without telling me first, and do not speak."

After she planted her hands on the ground to steady herself, he began. He cut most of the length off in a few swipes, but after that things got tricky. The long blade wasn't intended for finicky work. If his hand slipped or she moved, he'd slice into her scalp or cut off an ear. Or one of his own fingers. The sun had slipped nearly all the way down when he set the weapon down for the last time. "Done."

Still seated, Ox twisted to face him while she ran a hand over the uneven lengths he’d left. Not a strand measured longer than two inches. After an audible swallow, she picked up the soap from a tussock of grass. "Turn your back again. I'm going to wash my head." 

The bath and a decent set of clothes improved her appearance as well as her odor. Even the bad job he'd done cutting her hair and his old shirt gave her a more feminine air. Her eyes appeared larger, though a square jaw lent her face strength rather than beauty. Guy guessed her to be a few years older than Marian, maybe in her middle twenties. 

Then she rose to her feet, revealing long, leather-clad legs that seemed to unfold forever until they met the hem of her borrowed shirt. Guy’s mouth went dry. 

“If you’re waiting for another peep show, it’s not going to happen.” She scowled as her hands dropped away from the ties at her neckline. The opening was perfectly modest; womens’ gowns revealed more flesh. But coupled with the pants and those legs . . . Guy could have devoured her on the spot. 

Appalled at his attraction to this nonentity, he turned away. "I need to check my horse and gear. Call if you need help." 

"I will. Thank you. Please go away."

 _With pleasure._ He hied himself back to the clearing, disgusted at his response to this female. Guy liked his bedmates pretty and forgettable, unable to get under his skin. He’d even pursued Marian, at first, simply because he wanted a wife to wear on his arm like an expensive bauble. Not until later had her courage and fire induced him to offer her his heart. _And how well that turned out._

He’d responded to this girl's legs only because his bed had been cold for so long. That had to be it. While betrothed to Marian, he thought it only right to forswear other female company. Since she jilted him at the altar, he’d hesitated to indulge himself with any woman in Nottingham, convinced they were all laughing at him behind his back.

At the makeshift camp, he separated the two blankets that made up his bedroll, placing them well apart. When Ox returned, her shorn hair in wet spikes, he handed her a strip of dried beef. "Cold camp tonight. It's too hot for a fire."

She accepted the food, but didn't eat right away. Instead she walked to one of the blankets, her glance traveling from it to Guy's, clearly measuring its distance between them. “Is this for me?”

Still annoyed at his earlier reaction, he grunted a yes. 

She seated herself on it, gingerly, as a man might mount a half-broken horse. She nodded. "Thank you."

The bemusement in her voice lessened his irritation. Somewhat. 

Neither spoke as the stars came out overhead. They reminded Guy of the diamonds he had once wanted to shower on Marian, before she ripped out his heart.

After a while, steady breathing from the other pallet indicated that Ox slept. No unusual sound disrupted the night, so he risked leaving the meadow for a bath of his own. When he returned, there was no sign that the girl awakened. The muggy air made the thought of sleeping clothed distasteful. Yawning, he uncovered the leather flask he’d tucked under his blanket. 

Unstopping it, he took a long swig of strong red wine from the south of France. He hadn’t hesitated to help himself from Vaisey’s private store. Guy figured the man owed him, especially considering some of the more unsavory tasks he’d done at the malevolent little sheriff’s bidding. Besides, Vaisey hadn’t the palate to appreciate fine things. For a long time, Guy stared up at the night sky. Only when he’d emptied the flask did he roll up in his blanket. 


	3. Chapter 3

Ox startled awake, sitting straight up in the dark. Bending forward, she pressed her hands to her racing heart. Nothing blocked her nose or mouth, but she couldn't get enough air. Worse, her gasps echoed in her ears like a dozen saws. They’d hear her. They’d find her. 

Mastering her breath, she listened with all her might, but couldn't hear the sounds she dreaded: masculine laughter, whispers of _we're coming to get you Ox_ , shouts of the Motts chasing her down. Only insect song and the fitful rattle of leaves filled the warm night air. Her taut nerves slowly relaxed. 

_Just a nightmare._ Moisture stung her eyes for the second time since that morning, and here she thought she’d cried herself dry long ago. Maybe the day had been too much. She’d started it trapped with the Motts and ended it trapped with Guy of Gisborne. 

Yet she didn't regret jumping on his horse this afternoon. Easier to get away from one man than seven. Maybe the head count at Mott's farm was down one or two. That calmed her. 

After what she'd survived, she could live through whatever one surly knight dished out. Then, when the chance came, when her hair didn't make her stick out like a hedgehog in a litter of kittens, she'd disappear. Nottingham was supposed to be a large town. It would have many roads leading away in many different directions. 

Till then, she was better off with Sir Guy. He had yet to hit her. Nor had he moved so much as a fingertip toward her blanket. True, he’d bound her that afternoon, but he’d cut her free after she compared him to the Motts. She rubbed the aching rope burns on her wrists. Her face hurt too, but she would put salve on her wounds in the morning. Meat filled her stomach, even if it was dried. There might be something for breakfast. And she was blessedly, gloriously clean.

During her bath, she’d grown light-headed watching the soap suds floating downstream. They seemed to carry away not only her filth, but a thin layer of the terror she’d worn like a second skin for years. Maybe that’s why she had the nerve to raise her voice to a man who could cut her in half with one swing of his blade. 

She needed to watch herself. Sir Guy had beaten Bart Mott and nearly cut off his hand before her eyes, all in about a dozen heartbeats, all without breaking a sweat. She'd seen what he did to Elric and Hob, too, not that they didn't have it coming. The man had acted more like an angel of vengeance than the demon that folks made him out to be. She hoped he proved common gossip wrong. He said she belonged to him.

_We'll see about that._ Ox didn't plan to belong to any man, ever again. But until she left Sir Guy, she needed to stay on his good side. If he had one. 

Lifting her arm to her nose, she sniffed her -- his -- sleeve. It held just a touch of the same pleasant, earthy tang she’d noticed when she'd ridden behind him and when he'd cut her hair. He might have the blackest heart in England, but his outside smelled like sage and leather.

She lay back down. It wasn't a good sign, how comforting she found the smell of his shirt. Tonight though, she needed what comfort she could find. She sniffed the sleeve again.

"For God's sake, stop sniffling and go to sleep!"

She cringed at the growled order. "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you. Anyway, I’m not sniffling." 

"If you say so." A long, annoyed sigh followed. "I suppose you're not used to sleeping outside." 

To hide from the Motts, she'd slept outside in all kinds of weather, but the less she told him, the safer she'd be. Thankful the darkness hid her from those piercing eyes, she thought to placate him. "I was just smelling your shirt."

"Doing what?" Disbelief filled the deep voice.

"Your shirt. It smells good." 

"I should be flattered you think so." Now he spoke like he was on horseback while she groveled in the dust. Arse. She had never seen as comely a man as Sir Guy, but his never-ending foul mood reminded her of a bad-tempered dog. 

She rolled onto her back and stared up at the night sky. With the new moon hiding her face, the stars clustered like a fine lady's jewels. Gradually, Ox became aware of high, sweet singing from somewhere near. "What's that? It sounds like fairies."

He snorted. "Don't tell the nuns, they'll think you're a witch. It's from the priory. Matins, I guess."

Ox didn't like talk of witches. Instead, she listened, soothed by the lovely sound and the stars above. "I can't understand the words."

"It's Latin. '. . . for you are that most precious balm for broken, fetid wounds, transforming them into precious gems,'" A wistful note entered the deep voice. Made him sound almost human. 

"Pretty. Pity it's not true. I'd like gems for all my wounds." She rolled onto her side, although the night and the tall grass between their blankets prevented her from seeing him. 

She might have heard a half laugh. "You and me both. Tomorrow is a long day. We need our rest, so go to sleep."

She did as she was told, but woke in the gray half-light before dawn. The nuns were singing again. Ox slowly sat up. With careful fingertips, she explored the skin around her right eye. Squinting down, she could just make out puffy, darkened flesh in the dim light.

From Sir Guy’s blanket, a soft snore competed with the haunting song. 

She moved from sitting to kneeling to scrutinize him. 

Dark stubble on his jaw and chin framed a mouth that didn't smile even in sleep. His lashes brushed his cheeks, so thick and dark they could have been painted on. A few strands of sable hair fell over his forehead. Those and the lashes were the only soft things in that face. 

The blanket had fallen away from his chest, but Ox shied away from the sight. The solid muscles proclaimed how much it would hurt if he took a fist to her. 

Maybe if she got his horse watered and groomed, it would sweeten him. Mindful of his words about needing rest, she got to her feet as silently as she could. This meant slow, smooth movement. After what seemed like forever, she stood straight. With a quietness honed by years of slipping unnoticed past slumbering males, she inched across the dew-covered grass to Sir Guy's horse, stopping to pull up a handful of grass. 

Once she reached the animal, she offered him the food, which he lipped, but showed little interest in. Undeterred, she dropped the fresh green stalks. She just wanted to remind him she meant well. Easing the pin from the ground, she looped the picket line in her hands. With a pat on the beast’s shoulder, she whispered, "Let's get you a drink, my boy." 

As the light lifted around them, she led the animal one step at a time to the road and down the bank, she reached their destination. There, they both drank, then Ox splashed her hands in the water and rinsed the throbbing skin around her shiner. From her bag, tied to her waist, she pulled out the packet of salve, which she rubbed into her wrists and cheek. She tucked it away just as the first curve of the sun slid above the horizon.

A masculine bellow from the meadow split the air. She refastened the bag, fingers clumsy with haste. Clicking her tongue at the horse, Ox grasped his halter and hurried up the bank to see what was amiss. 

The immediate problem appeared to be that Sir Guy had lost his breeches. Bare as a babe, he turned in a circle in the middle of the meadow, holding his naked sword while curses flew from his mouth. "God's teeth! I don't believe I fell for a woman’s lies again!" The rosy light of early dawn caressed a fine firm rear end, then his side. "That trull stole my -- "

He faced her fully, giving her an eyeful. Of everything. 

Their gazes met. Immediately he jammed the sword point into the ground in an attempt to shield himself, or at least important parts of himself, from view. 

Ox focused on her feet. _Don't laugh. Don't laugh. Do not laugh._ She didn’t want to risk him striking her. Once she trusted herself to speak, she continued to inspect the grass while lifting the looped picket line in her hand. "I, er, watered your horse." 

Only birdsong broke the silence as she led the animal back into the clearing, her attention mostly fixed on his deep brown shoulder. She did peep over a couple times, to see Sir Guy standing like a naked sentry, unmoving except for the furious glare that followed her. 

She positioned Brutus so that the horse stood between her and Sir Guy. Shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, she pressed her face against the beast’s wither lest any sound escape.

The sound of clothes sliding over skin and the jingle of chain mail came from Sir Guy's direction. 

Ox lifted her head. "Um . . . you want me to get started grooming him?"

Accompanied by a snarl, a curry comb flew over the animal's back, landing a few feet behind her. Ox fetched it and started in. She just reached Brutus' back when Sir Guy, now fully dressed, appeared at the animal's head.

Two strides later, he gathered the neck of Ox's shirt with both hands, pulling her nose to nose with him. His eyes practically shot blue fire. Through clenched teeth, he snarled, "You speak of this to no one. Do you understand? No one! Not Vaisey, not a guard, not a field mouse. Is that clear?"

He let her go so fast she nearly lost her footing. Every impulse to laugh fled as she took a step back, tensed to run. 

Before she could, his bare hand gripped her jaw. "I said, is that clear?"

The angry dog had slipped his leash. She shook so hard she could hardly whisper, "Yes."

"Good." His hand dropped away and he spun on his heel.

"Turnabout is fair play," she muttered to his back.

"Pardon?" He whipped back around, blue eyes wide, brows lifted. If anything, that scared her more. 

An ember of the fury she'd nursed through years of abuse from the Motts kindled into a tiny flame. "You got a fine gander at my bare arse yesterday, twice. How do you think I'm going to feel when you’re drinking with your friends and brag that you found me tied up like a mare ready to be mounted, or that you leered at me while I took a bath?" 

“Me drinking with friends is the last thing you need to worry about.” His lip curled bitterly. “And I didn’t leer.” He fixed a considering stare on her. “Suppose we strike a deal. Neither of us mentions details about yesterday or just now."

"I'll keep my mouth shut till you open yours." Ox’s fist clenched around the curry comb. 

“Trying to defy me?” He approached her again. It took everything she had not to turn tail and plunge into the surrounding woods. She couldn’t help flinching as he placed a hand on her shoulder. "A word of friendly advice." His voice hardened. "Don’t.”

With that, he stalked to Brutus' head. Evidently the horse was used to his master's carryings on, for he’d barely twitched a hair during their exchange. Now he rested his head against Sir Guy’s belly. The wrath drained from Gisborne’s face as he stoked the sleek neck, replaced by a half-smile that made Ox’s jaw drop. 

He appeared . . . almost kind. 

She blinked, which was all the time needed for his usual grim expression to return. 

She resumed her task. "You could have just asked."

"Asked?" 

"You could have just asked me not to say anything instead of scaring the wits out of me." As the curry comb whispered over the near-black hide, she gave the man a sideways glance. 

He looked down his beak of a nose at her. "Without fear, you would not have agreed to do as I bid." 

"Of course I would have!" She scowled at him, her free hand on her hip. "You carried me out of hell. You think I'd blab if you didn’t want me to?" 

"Most people would say you've been carried off by the devil's henchman."

"Most people didn't have to live with the Motts." Ox tucked away the fact that he stepped right around her question. He must have a pretty poor opinion of her.

All right, she’d reeked yesterday, but she’d scrubbed herself clean yester eve. She’d agreed not to speak of his embarrassment. Finished on this side, she strode toward Brutus' head, where Sir Guy still stood. As she passed, she leveled her gaze at him. "You got me out of there. I won't forget."

He made a disgusted noise and stalked away, prowling through the grass with the grace of a wildcat. It wasn’t lost on her that his arse looked nearly as good covered in black leather as it did bare. 

She began on Brutus' other side, shaking her head. A body would think she'd insulted the man, not tried to offer him a bit of thanks. Nor did she have any business thinking about his rear end, covered or not. 

***

_You carried me out of hell._

_I won't forget._

His back to the girl, Guy packed a saddlebag, wishing he could cram her words in with his gear and forget about them. Every female he tupped, kitchen maid or lady, started trying to redeem him if he kept her around long enough. Even Marian who, alas, he had not tupped, expected him to defy Vaisey because she batted her eyes at him. Guy buckled the first bag with a yank. 

Marian had grown up secure, sheltered by the affection of an indulgent father. She believed everyone had some good in them, even him. Or maybe that was an act. Given that she’d walked out of their wedding without a second thought, he changed _maybe_ to _probably._

He started on the second receptacle, filling it with Brutus’ gear. He did not need one more innocent making big eyes at him, all the while pitying him and trying to change him into the good man he could never be.

Except Ox was no innocent. Yesterday, Mott hadn’t twitched a brow at the news of his sons' attempt at rape. They’d assaulted her before. And she'd fought them often enough to earn the heavy scars around her wrists. He’d seen veteran Crusaders who didn’t have that kind of fortitude.

_You carried me out of hell._

She'd thrown the words at him as if they were a gauntlet. 

Guy snorted. The only reason she would keep silent about this morning was because she feared what he could say about her. 

_I won't forget._

She would. He'd transgress whatever foolish moral code she followed and she'd forget everything he'd ever done for her. Like Marian had on his wedding day. 

His gut twisted. In his heart of hearts, he knew he'd pushed Marian to accept him before she was ready, but to leave him at the altar? She hadn't had to walk out of that church to face the combined pity and scorn of an entire estate. 

The second saddlebag awaited the curry comb Ox still used. Guy rose to his feet and watched her. Oblivious of his observation, she bent to run the comb over the horse's hock, speaking in a quiet singsong. 

He found himself drawn to those legs again, imagining them wrapped around him while he -- 

_Do you want to be like those pieces of scum she had to fight off?_

He exhaled. No. Today, anyway, he did not want to be that man.

Slinging the saddlebags over his shoulder, he marched toward the girl and his horse. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lines quoted by Guy are from 'O Ignee Spiritus' by Hildegard von Bingen.


	4. Chapter 4

They left the clearing before the sun rose above the treetops. As on the day before, Sir Guy rode Brutus while Ox paced alongside the horse.

Already, it promised to be as hot as yesterday. She welcomed the plunge deeper into Sherwood. The knight rode in grumpy silence, so she didn’t need to talk, or even pay him much attention. Cheery birdsong filled the air, along with the rich scents of plants and dew-dampened earth.

Unfortunately, her borrowed breeches soon distracted her from these pleasant things. Made to fit Sir Guy’s lean but well-muscled form, they showed a tendency to slip down her scrawny hips. This hadn’t affected her last night, but at this morning’s steady pace, the string that bound her bag around her middle proved too thin to hold up the heavy leather.

After she hiked up the breeches a dozen times in maybe a mile, she gave up, bunching the waistband in one hand, while the hem of her shirt flapped around her. She felt like a right fool.

Eventually, a drawn-out sigh reached her ears over the thunk-thunk of hoofbeats. The horse stopped. She cast a glance backward.

Sir Guy dismounted and moved to the saddlebags. From one, he pulled out the coil of rope. His narrowed eyes examined her midsection. One slice of his dagger later, he tossed a belt-sized length at her feet. “Fix them.”

She scooped it up, then waited for him to turn his back and give her a little privacy. Instead, he recoiled the rope and glared at her from under his brows.

She hated being the one who had to twist away. All too aware of his attention, she inched up the hem of her shirt and jerked the waistband into place, then wrapped the rope around it.

“I should have realized they wouldn’t fit, given how emaciated you are.”

She knotted the rough hemp. “Ema-see-what?”

“Emaciated,” he repeated. “It means you haven’t had enough to eat. For a long time.”

“Ummf.” Still not looking at him, she slid her fingers under the binding to be sure it would stay put. He wasn’t wrong, but she was in no mood for pity.

Then something -- someone -- lifted the back of her shirt.

She whirled, to find him less than a foot away. “Get your hands off me!”

Empty words, delivered in a shaking voice. They’d never once protected her from the Motts, but no one had the right to grab her against her will. She danced back a few steps.

Sir Guy lifted his hands to shoulder height, regarding her with a tilt to his head like she was some kind of beetle he’d never seen before. “Your back has scars.”

“Me and half of England. So what?” Ox skittered further out of reach, relieved yet annoyed. She absolutely did not want his touch, yet that disdainful expression irked her. Which made no sense. She scowled. She didn’t like things that didn’t make sense.

“I didn’t notice them yester eve. Your hair hid your back.”

“You mean when you were playing Peeping Tom during my bath.” She scoffed, crossing her arms. Which she could do now that her pants were belted. “You’re going to tell me you’ve never beaten a servant?”

“Nothing of the sort. I expect obedience, and punish those who don’t give it to me.” At last he stepped away, returning to the horse. “But I don’t lash women.”

“Didn’t know you were such a gallant.”

“There’s more than one way to punish a recalcitrant serf.” He surveyed her over one shoulder.

Ox shivered under that keen gaze. “Don’t know what that means, either.”

“Defiant of authority.” He swung into the saddle.

She shrugged. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“Right.” He touched his heels to Brutus’ sides. “You’ve been little else since you landed at my feet.”

He didn’t sound angry, but she chose a careful distance from his foot as the horse moved forward. “Sorry.”

"My lord."

She swiveled her head around to see what he was talking about. "My Lord what?"

"Sorry, my lord. Yes, my lord or no, my lord. If you're going to be part of my household, address me correctly."

She nearly told him where he could stuff his _my lords_ , but caught herself. "Yes," she ground out instead. "My lord."

She tipped her head to scowl up at him again, but he regarded only the road ahead of them. A smirk hovered around his mouth, however.

_Git._

Her opinion of him improved somewhat after he stopped at the priory, ‘donating’ some pennies for a wedge of golden cheese and two fresh-baked manchet loaves, along with a small sack of dried apples to share with Brutus. Sir Guy seemed to think it a paltry breakfast, but Ox blissfully tore into her share of the tangy cheese and warm bread. She’d not eaten so well in a month.

To her surprise, he didn’t climb back on the horse’s back, choosing instead to stroll along next to her while he ate. After his rage in the clearing, his nearness unsettled her. When he appeared interested only in his food, she breathed easier. As he tucked the small bag that held his money into his jerkin, she nodded at a plump pouch that hung from his belt. “Why not use the money in that?”

He raked her over with an unreadable look. “Thinking about robbing me?”

“No!” She took another bite of cheese, savoring the taste. “Just curious, that’s all.”

“Curiosity gets people killed.” This close to her ear, his deep voice sent a shiver down her spine.

“Nobody ever learned anything without it.” She wolfed down the last of the bread.

“Don’t eat so fast, you’ll get sick.” He handed her a dried apple. "This," he patted the pouch, "is for thieves. All they'll get is a few coppers and a lot of rusty nails."

"All metal, so the weight and sound will be right," she guessed, holding the apple under her nose to inhale its sweetness.

The corners of his mouth softened with something like approval. "Exactly."

After they ate and Sir Guy remounted, they spent hours in silence. Ox gazed from one side to the other as they continued south. Dried-up spears of wild garlic thrust upward in some places, pungent and past their prime. Had they been new and green, Ox would have been tempted to dig some up. Besides flavoring sops and stews, the bulbs and leaves cured a host of ills. Bright gold flowers of St. John’s wort glowed in a few places, ready to be plucked and dried to make tisanes, or hung in a house to keep evil away. In the distance, the rat-tat-tat-tat of a woodpecker’s beak sounded. Warblers sang in the branches above their heads, interrupted by the chatter of squirrels.

As the miles passed, the summer heat penetrated even the deepest shade. Ox had labored every day of her life, but walking mile after mile on a hot, sticky day was new and painful for her. When they stopped to rest, she half expected to discover bones poking through the soles of her burning feet. Instead all she found was callused, if dirty, flesh. She didn’t even have any blisters, mostly likely thanks to spending much of her time barefoot.

She wished Sir Guy would let her ride behind him again, but she’d walk her legs to stumps before she’d ask.

Eventually, the road dipped down toward a dry stream bed filled with leaves and stones. Man and beast halted at the crest, the knight freezing in the saddle. He lifted his head as if trying to hear or even _feel_ everything in the area.

His manner rattled Ox. “What’s wrong?”

“The closer we get to Nottingham, the likelier it is we’ll be attacked,” he replied. “And this is an excellent place for an ambush.” He loosened his sword in its scabbard.

She gulped, wishing she had a weapon of her own. Then again, she had no skill to wield one.

One hand on the hilt of his sword, Sir Guy urged Brutus forward. As he guided the beast into the gully, he added, “If anything happens, you stay out of range of my blade, especially my back swing. In a fight there’s no time to see who’s behind me.”

“Yes, my lord.” This time she spoke in all sincerity.

Sure enough, before they climbed up the opposite side of the dell, figures appeared out of the trees ahead of them, as if by magic. The back of her neck tingled. She would have sworn she and Sir Guy were alone.

Two of them, a bear of a man carrying a quarterstaff and a lanky fellow bearing a long-handled axe, approached slowly from either side. She pivoted, only to meet the bright blue eyes of a third fighter who brandished another bow and arrow. Beside him stood a stocky fellow with a puffed-out chest and a lifted chin, who reminded Ox of a young cockerel, all crow and no wit. But he carried a long knife, so she stumbled to a stop.

A woman with near-black hair and eyes, also armed, took her place a few steps behind Blue Eyes and the Cockerel. She too wore breeches and a shirt. Ones that fit properly. A stab of envy hit Ox even as she faced front once more.

A scruffy fellow who appeared barely older than she was planted himself ten feet from Brutus’ nose. His bow was drawn and an arrow nocked, aimed straight at the man on horseback. “Gisborne.”

Sir Guy’s sword scraped out of its sheath, gleaming against the shaded forest light. “Hood. I should have expected as much.”

“Indeed, you should have.” A smile stretched the younger man’s mouth, but his eyes stayed hard and narrowed. “Been out terrorizing the populace again?”

_Hood?_

“Robin Hood?” Her words came out in a squeak. Along with everyone else in the shire, she’d heard of the hero of the Sherwood Forest. But no one she knew had ever set eyes on him. She crept closer. “You’re Robin Hood?”

“God give me patience,” Sir Guy rolled his eyes.

The bowman flashed her a cheeky grin. “Always happy to meet an admirer.” His attention slid back to his prey. “Especially one who needs rescuing.”

He pulled the string of his bow a little tighter, knotting Ox’s gut at the same time. The gang closed in around them. Clenching her fists, she hissed in a breath, then gagged a bit at the odor of unwashed male times five. Even if they were heroes, being cornered by a group of strange men reminded her too much of the Motts. “Sir Guy already rescued me.”

The bear-man and the one with the axe gaped at her. From behind, the other woman said, “I cannot imagine any situation worse than being Guy of Gisborne’s prisoner.”

“Lucky you,” Ox retorted over her shoulder. “Also, I’m not his prisoner.” Not exactly.

“Truly, Gisborne is dangerous.” The woman’s English was accented, but perfectly clear. A smile broke through her serious manner. “Although if he rescued you from whoever gave you that haircut, your gratitude is understandable.”

Ox’s hand flew to the uneven mop crowning her head. “That bad?”

The foreigner winced and nodded.

“Seriously, Djaq?” The Cockerel waved an arm in Ox’s direction. “This poor girl is in mortal danger and all you can do is talk about hair?”

“Not to mention we finally have Gisborne cornered,” called Robin.

“You wish,” retorted Sir Guy.

“Hair is important,” both women snapped, then exchanged friendly grins.

“I was wondering who cut yours.” Ox sighed at Djaq’s neat locks, nearly as smooth and shiny as polished onyx.

She gestured to the Cockerel. “Much, here.”

Much’s face colored as a pleased smile crossed his face.

With a disgusted sound, the man with the bright blue eyes lunged at Ox, his fingers pressing into the sore side of her face. “Not his prisoner? Look at this shiner. Giz must have beat her into submission.”

“He got me away from the bastards who did this to me. Now,” she jerked her head away and backhanded the lout with every ounce of her strength, “Get. Your. Fucking. Hands. Off me.”

With a howl of pain, he staggered to one side, just in time to miss having his skull split by a steel blade.

“Enough.” Sir Guy reined Brutus in a circle around Ox, sword extended, forcing the others back. “She’s made it clear that she doesn’t want your help, Hood, so we’ll be on our way.”

“Are you sure about that, my lady?” Robin lowered his bow to address her. “We’ll have you away from Gisborne before you can say black-hearted monster.”

Black-hearted, likely. Dangerous, undoubtedly. Also frightening. But Sir Guy was more of a known quantity than five strange men, one of whom had just handled her without warning.

“He smells better.” Ox didn’t ask permission. She just scrambled onto Brutus’ back as best she could without help.

“You have your answer.” Seated behind Sir Guy, she couldn’t see his expression, but he sounded downright smug.

“Not so fast.” Robin drew his bow again. “We’ll take that full pouch at your side.”

He sheathed his sword, then pulled the receptacle free, jingling the contents. “Catch.”

It still sailed through the air as he caught up the reins with both hands. “Hya!”

Hood and the others scattered as Brutus shot up the road. Ox, expecting a move like this, hung on to her knight for dear life. And hoped she’d made the right choice.

They galloped until they left the eaves of the forest. As they emerged into full sunlight, Sir Guy slowed the animal to a walk. “Hood won’t risk attacking me in sight of the walls.”

They had reached Nottingham. Ox peered over his shoulder at the forbidding pile of dull gray blocks sprawled across the road. Grim, square towers rose higher than any tree she had ever seen. "I didn't know there was that much stone in the world."

He didn’t answer. Reining the horse to a stop, he lifted his hands and fumbled at his throat. A moment later, he passed his scarf over his shoulder. “You can use this to cover your hair.”

In their escape from Robin Hood, Ox hadn’t given a thought to what she must look like. Now, as a few people emerged from the town’s distant gate, it dawned on her that people other than Sir Guy would see her. She took the scarf and bound it about her head, grateful she no longer had hanks of matted, dirty hair for people to stare at.

She gingerly replaced her arms around her companion once more. Now that they weren’t being chased, the vision of dawn light on perfect male muscles rose in her mind and would not go away. It didn’t help to feel the flex of his middle within her arms as Brutus ambled forward again.

“Why didn’t you go with Hood?”

The abrupt question interrupted her inner battle not to run her hands over the man beneath them. She latched on to it, searching for the best answer.

“Well?” he snapped.

“I didn’t like that fellow grabbing me.” That sounded like a good safe reply.

"A Dale," Sir Guy said. "Sly little knob."

“And there were more than just him.” She shuddered.

“Groups of men frighten you, do they.” It wasn’t a question.

Fearing she revealed too much, she sat a little straighter, noticing for the first time the raven-wing strands that tumbled over the collar in front of her. She’d had her cheek pressed too hard against his back to pay attention to them before. Trouble, those locks were, beckoning to a woman to comb them out with her fingers, to find out if they were thick and heavy or soft as down.

Ox tore her gaze away and stared forward, at the great walls that loomed higher with every step Brutus took. They scared her, but not as much as her urges to lay hands on the man in front of her.


End file.
